


Inked in Red

by Eagle_Grass_16



Series: Laurent Is Not Quite Human [2]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: (in general), Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Fluff, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Blood/Bleeding, Kinky, Life Debt, M/M, Non-Human Laurent, Paranormal, Past Lives, Reincarnation, but it has decent writing (I think?), but not in a sexual setting, i'm not quite sure what this is, oh but that's questionable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22299634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eagle_Grass_16/pseuds/Eagle_Grass_16
Summary: His hand slipped into the deep folds of his clothes, and he took something tightly into his grip. Damen saw the subtle rise of his shoulders when he breathed in, and before Damen could blink, he’d lifted his hand. A silver arc flashed in Damen’s sluggish vision, ending in the centre of Laurent’s chest. A suppressed inhale. Laurent’s fingers were locked around the handle of a dagger.The blade was buried in his heart.[COMPLETE FOR NOW]
Relationships: Damen & Laurent (Captive Prince), Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Series: Laurent Is Not Quite Human [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581391
Comments: 18
Kudos: 47





	1. Inked in Red

**Author's Note:**

> Since I've written [Vampire Laurent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21952921/chapters/52388995), where Laurent drinks Damen's blood, I thought it'd only be fair that Damen also gets to drink Laurent's blood. So here you have it.
> 
> (This is, like the Vampire Laurent fic, not plot-driven. It's weird and more like a snapshot of an AU in which I play around with character settings and explore their interactions.)
> 
> //Also, some of the things they do in this fic are **not sanitary**. Please do not mimic in real life.//

The carnage around them was unlike anything Damen had ever seen.

Mutilated bodies were haphazardly flung about, many of which with bloody punctures through their stomachs and chests and necks. Stripped limbs strewn meters away from bodies, soil a shade darker than normal, black with crimson. The ground where buildings had once stood were now reduced to smoking, dusty rubble. Broken branches lay here and there, some with tiny sparks of fire sizzling at their charred edges. Petals drifted downwards in slow, messy swirls from the cherry trees still standing, buoyed by the silent, chilling breeze; when they touched the ground, some became soaked through with scarlet, some got devoured by miniature flames, most adorned the darkness of the scene with reflected moonlight.

Laurent’s silhouette stood like a statue, unmoving in the destruction around it, the lone shadow still standing in a field of splattered ink.

Damen gazed at him from where he lay against the trunk of a fallen tree, his chiton and his skin alike, torn and filthy. Blood oozed over his fingers as his hand pressed over the wound in his stomach; warm, sticky, then cold. His temples were crusty, his hair plastered to his skin with dried and drying blood. He couldn’t move his left leg, but he could see the unnaturalness of the angle in which his ankle was bent. Each breath brought a dull, stifling pain to his chest.

Slowly, Laurent turned, his figure graceful and his features obscured. His form seemed impossibly liquid in his movements, and his eyes gleamed with a light of their own. They were the only things on his face that Damen could discern.

It smelled like charred flesh and vegetation, blood and sweat and decay. Across the black air, Damen forced the corners of his lips up in a feeble smile. He knew Laurent could see it.

“I’m impressed,” he said, hurting, the hurt not mattering.

Laurent’s shadow made no reply. His eyes flashing, he approached Damen with fluid, gliding steps, the edges of his elaborate Veretian clothing rippling through the atmosphere, pale petals glancing off the folds of the fabric, then overtaken by darkness as Laurent swept over them.

"I was late," said Laurent, as he knelt down beside Damen.

Any pain was only secondary; Damen reached out with the hand not over his wound, his fingers dipping through shadow to slide against Laurent's skin, to feel the solid warmth of Laurent's flesh. He brushed his thumb along the defined edge of Laurent's cheekbone, though he couldn't see it.

"You're right on time," said Damen.

He lowered his hand to seek out one of Laurent's, but felt Laurent pull away, out of range.

Damen attempted to shift closer, but the movement brought a fresh wave of bleeding from his stomach, the hot metallic liquid bathing his fingers. He hissed.

"Don't move," said Laurent, voice clipped, urgent. His hands flew back to hover near Damen, unsure of something.

Damen grasped one, and only tightened his fingers when he felt Laurent try to jerk away. The struggle was half-hearted, for they both knew if Laurent really wanted to, the ways he could extricate himself from Damen's hold were numerous.

Laurent's fingers were bloodier than Damen's. The only difference was that it wasn't Laurent's blood that was on his hands and caked under his nails.

"They weren't all terrible people, you know," said Damen, softly, lacing their dirty fingers.

"You know I can't discriminate," said Laurent.

"I also know," said Damen, "that you wish you could."

Laurent averted his eyes, and said, flatly, “You’re dying."

"It feels like that,” agreed Damen. He cracked another agonising smile, and felt the beginning of its fading, along with that of his strength. His grip on Laurent’s hand slackened, and through the blur of his faintness, he could feel Laurent’s grasp tighten in response.

In his delirium, he saw the darkness ensconcing Laurent begin to dissipate, tendril by tendril. In the background of the carnage, the fingertips of dawn were starting to peek through the night. Scarcely any sparks remained flickering, flames having consumed themselves in their lust for fuel. Maybe it was the blood loss, but dawn felt chillier than night.

Finally he could see the lines of Laurent’s face, though it was blurry.

“I’ll be—fine,” said Damen, mostly lying.

Then Laurent pulled his fingers from Damen’s, leaving Damen acutely aware of the limpness of his limbs.

“Yes,” said Laurent, something steely and almost savage in his voice. “You will be fine.”

His hand slipped into the deep folds of his clothes, and he took something tightly into his grip. Damen saw the subtle rise of his shoulders when he breathed in, and before Damen could blink, he’d lifted his hand. A silver arc flashed in Damen’s sluggish vision, ending in the centre of Laurent’s chest. A suppressed inhale. Laurent’s fingers were locked around the handle of a dagger.

The blade was buried in his heart.

“ _What_ are you doing?” said Damen, barely capable of anything more than an emphatic rasp.

Oblique light slanted over them from the east, dawn quietly but surely oozing over the field. It was still dark, but there was enough illumination for Damen to watch as dark wetness soaked through the silk and brocade of Laurent's shirt and jacket, an expanding stain whose edges only travelled faster when, with a repressed grunt, Laurent yanked the dagger back out, leaving the gash gaping on his chest. Blood exuded from it in irregular pours, following after each beat of his lacerated heart.

Instead of answering, Laurent raised the dagger again, and brought it to his chest. His other hand came up as well, his fingers hooking onto his clothes and pulling it from his skin. Then with a jerk of his wrist he sliced down the fabric with the blade, and sawed through cloth until there was a gap in front of his chest, exposing the wound over his heart, the blood still trickling out. In his hand, Laurent held lightly the wad of blood-soaked cloth he’d cut off.

His other hand dropped the dagger, which landed with a muffled rustle onto the ground.

Laurent's newly freed hand moved to carefully pry Damen's tattered chiton from his skin, revealing the ugly gash on his stomach. The edges of the wound were jagged, and lined with dried blood. Damen felt dizzy looking down at it, immobilised and leeched of his strength. It could also just be that he was on the verge of unconsciousness.

"Laurent—" he tried, but air slipped through his articulators without making any syllables.

Damen could only watch as Laurent brought the bloody fabric lump directly over his stomach wound and squeezed his fingers over it, splattering the liquid darkness of his blood onto Damen's abdomen, into the jagged hole in his body.

It stung. Laurent's blood was cold on Damen's skin and caustic in Damen's wound. His gaze was hard.

He pressed the cloth wad back over the self-inflicted wound on his chest, still bleeding, for another round of soaking. His movements were steady, and Damen, through the haze of his mind, found himself more bewildered than alarmed.

Collect blood onto the wad of cloth; wring it over Damen's wound; repeat.

Damen wasn't sure how many times Laurent did this, or how Laurent was still bleeding and showing no visible signs of his very visible blood loss. He only knew, as Laurent continued his actions, that they were somehow working.

His vision cleared up, his breathing levelled out. The tingling sensation from his stomach now tickled rather than stung, and warmth began to spread back through his body. When enough of his health returned for him to do so, he said what he'd been unable to, before: "Laurent."

At Damen's coarse voice, Laurent's gaze snapped up, but only for a moment. His eyes, Damen noted, were no longer gleaming; the glow of them wavered like a flame at the melting end of a candlestick.

This time, Laurent delivered the bloodied bundle to Damen's face, holding it right before Damen's mouth.

"What—" began Damen, startled.

Laurent pressed the cloth into Damen's parted lips, cutting Damen off. He said, "Suck."

Damen tried to pull back, but Laurent's hand followed. Laurent's blood flooded Damen's mouth, traced down his chin and along Laurent's wrist, scarlet webbing trails stark against the white of his skin, appearing almost black in the early dawn. It tasted heavy on Damen’s tongue, bitter and metallic, and somehow burning despite being impossibly cold. Damen’s teeth ached, and he forced himself to swallow, because it was the only way to keep from gagging. He thought he could feel the dense weight of it pushing down his throat and gullet, prickling and thick.

After a while, Laurent removed the cloth from Damen’s mouth, drawing threads of bloody, viscous saliva in the lightening air between them. Damen saw that the bleeding of the gash on Laurent’s chest had slowed to a thin dribble. Dark smears marred the skin around the wound where repeated presses of the cloth had landed, and a streak of drying blood ran down the centre of Laurent's chest, forming a haematite-coloured track that eventually slipped beneath the ripped folds of Laurent's clothes.

“What was that?” Damen asked, the burst of his question carrying the quality of a gasp. The flavour of Laurent’s blood lingered in his mouth, a strange, cloying aftertaste that was almost sweet, like that of fine tea.

He shifted reflexively forward, leaning towards Laurent. It wasn’t until he’d grasped Laurent’s arm that he realised it was no longer painful to breathe. He fixed his eyes on Laurent’s face, but Laurent’s gaze was directed downwards, at Damen’s broken ankle.

Laurent didn’t answer his question. He extracted his arm from Damen’s hold, warned, “This will hurt,” and with both hands rearranged Damen's foot in a quick twist.

Damen grimaced. His hand shook slightly in the air as he reached towards the wound on Laurent’s chest. His fingertips fluttered over the blood-smudged skin around the wound, and he felt Laurent tense against a flinch.

“Don’t you need to stop the bleeding?” said Damen. His fingers had come away damp.

“I can’t do much for your ankle here,” said Laurent. “You’ll need a physician.”

“Laurent—”

“I can probably make a splint—”

“ _Laurent_.”

Laurent finally looked up; the blue of his eyes seemed to have fallen flat, approximating a dull, livid grey.

"What is it?" he asked.

Damen let out a slow sigh. "You were already pale," he said, quietly. "Now you're basically turning blue."

Tight-jawed: "I'm fine."

Laurent stood up. “Don’t move. I’ll be”—he stumbled, but quickly righted himself—“right back.”

In one quick movement, Damen manoeuvred so that he was on his knees, ignoring the sharp pain that radiated from his ankle in favour of expanding his reach. He grabbed at Laurent, his fingers easily encircling Laurent’s wrist, halting him.

Laurent did not try to pull away; Damen suspected it was because, unlike earlier, Laurent had not the strength now. Laurent’s entire frame appeared frail against the dawn-cast destruction behind him. He looked inexplicably forlorn, like a solitary deity amidst shatters of his own creation, unrepentant, but discontent, as though longing for something but afraid of finding it.

Damen tugged Laurent down to his knees. He arranged himself carefully back into a sitting position, though could not manage to avoid pain from his ankle altogether. Laurent’s brows furrowed, and he opened his mouth.

Damen spoke before he could. “Let’s stop your bleeding.”

“That’s not necessary—”

Damen had taken a clean part of Laurent’s shirt and now pressed it over the wound; at the pressure, Laurent’s lips pressed tightly together, but not before a small hum of discomfort slipped through them.

"Sit," said Damen. Laurent did.

Through the cloth Damen could feel the unsteady rhythm of Laurent's heart, which was, impossibly, still beating.

"It's at times like this," said Damen, in a low murmur, "that I'm reminded you're so much more powerful than I can imagine." _But still not invincible._

"Damen..."

"If you were human, you would be dead."

“I’m not human,” said Laurent. He sounded almost bitter.

“No,” said Damen. “You’re alive.”

“If I were human,” said Laurent, softly, “you would be dead.”

Damen relaxed his press over Laurent’s wound to check that the bleeding had slowed enough. He stared at it, the bloody puncture of the blade tarnishing the otherwise pale surface of Laurent’s skin. It must hurt him each time his heart beat. Looking at it, Damen felt like the dagger had pierced his own heart, and the tiniest movements were painful.

He was in no place to berate Laurent for what he’d done. He couldn’t shake Laurent and ask him what he’d been thinking, couldn’t demand that Laurent take back the stab, or make Laurent understand how much it had scared him when he’d watched him sink the dagger into himself. He couldn’t give back what Laurent had given him. He said:

“How much did it hurt?”

“Bearable,” said Laurent.

Gaze still on Laurent’s chest, Damen said, “You shouldn’t have done this.” Before Laurent could pose an objection: “I’m very—mortal. Like you said. I’ll only occupy a few fleeting decades of your life, then disappear from it. You’ll forget me, not immediately, but eventually. To do this—to break the rules of your people so blatantly and risk everything you’ve worked for—is it really worth it?”

Laurent’s fingers touched Damen’s chin and drew his face in an upward tilt, forcing Damen to meet his eyes, which, even dimmed, were mesmerising. Damen could read the vehement pledge in them, an obstinate confession that Laurent would never say out loud: _I will never forget you._

“My very soul is black,” said Laurent. “There is but one spot at the tip of my heart, where you dwell, where the blood remains red.”

Laurent leaned down and brought their mouths close. His eyes unblinking, his breath on Damen’s lips: “To use it to keep you well—it is more than worth it.”

Their lips met hesitantly, it being one of the rare occasions that Laurent initiated a kiss, coupled with the direness of their circumstances. It tasted a little like Laurent’s blood, some of which had dried on and around Damen’s mouth and now mixed keenly with the movement of their lips, something surprisingly mellow in the sour amalgamation of desperation and unspoken fears.

When they parted, they were close enough, and dawn had come far enough, that Damen could see the redness rimming Laurent’s eyes, like that of someone who’d been holding back tears.

“I never thanked you,” said Damen. He touched their foreheads together, closed his eyes, breathed in. In a whisper, he said:

“Thank you for saving my life.”

“No,” said Laurent, equally quietly, just as carefully. “Thank you, for giving me mine.”

As with many other things Laurent had said to him, Damen wasn’t completely sure what Laurent meant, but it was as though he was feeling those words somewhere deep and unconscious inside of him. It was as if there was something about himself that he couldn’t quite access, something terribly important.

Damen opened his eyes, pulled back slightly. Laurent reached up, and Damen felt the touch brushing over his hair. Lowering his hand, Laurent unfurled his fingers before Damen, offering him something.

It was a blossom petal: pale, thin, a little wrinkled at one edge, and showing delicate traces of red from both their bloodied fingers.

❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 「我連魂魄都是黑的，唯獨心尖上一點乾乾淨淨地放著你，血還是紅的，用它護著你，我願意。」—鎮魂 | priest
> 
> “My very soul is black. There is but one spot at the tip of my heart, where you dwell, and where the blood remains red. To use it to keep you well—it is more than worth it.” —Guardian | priest
> 
> If you've read priest's _Guardian_ (鎮魂), you might have recognized the quote. Or you might not, since this is my own translation of it. (If you've only watched the drama series, you probably didn't recognize the quote, because they took it out for being too "obviously gay.") This quote was the main inspiration for this fic.  
> I enjoyed the drama, but it does have really lousy special effects, and the actor for the purple-haired villain is kind of sad. The two main leads are amazing, though—they basically carried the drama. As for the novel—I never actually finished reading it, because I personally preferred the weird sci-fi setting of the drama over the folk-fantasy setting of the novel.


	2. But Bleeding Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I was always alone, until you; I should be used to it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

Laurent found him every time after that, in every one of his lives.

Laurent’s blood had allowed Damianos to survive the battlefield that day, and he had gone on to become a powerful, noble king to his people. He kept Laurent by his side—as an adviser, as a friend, as a lover—and Laurent was happy to remain there. In the dark, quiet recesses of their nights, he would ask Laurent about his life before they met, and sometimes Laurent would answer, disinhibited in the aftermaths of their lovemaking. Mostly, though, the words lingered in the space between their breaths until one of them fell asleep in the arms of the other. There were things that Laurent could never say, and Damen, knowing it, never pressed.

Laurent was by Damen’s side as he grew old and age wrecked his human frame. He didn’t mind the wrinkles on Damen’s face, or the lightening of Damen’s once-dark hair. At first Damen had been troubled by the disparity between the two of them: himself, showing the inescapable wear of time on humanity, and Laurent, looking as he did the day they met. It was a relief that, eventually, Damen moved past it, though it wasn’t unexpected: Damen had a way of subverting what was normal, the same way he’d so quickly been able to accept Laurent after learning what Laurent was.

Laurent offered, with no small amount of hesitance, to alter his appearance to match that of Damen’s in his age, but Damen just laughed.

“I’m realising,” he’d said, hand over Laurent’s, “that it’s silly to fret over something as superficial as physical appearances, when our time is destined to be limited.”

❖

Laurent was by Damen’s bedside when he died, despite Damen’s numerous protests: he didn’t want Laurent to witness his inevitable mortality. It was something beyond mere vanity; he didn't want Laurent to hurt.

"I wish I could stay with you, longer. I hate for you to be alone."

"I've been alone before," said Laurent. _I was always alone, until you; I should be used to it._

Damen gave him a sad, tired smile, and his weakened fingers gripped Laurent's hand a little more tightly.

They waited for him to die in silence. Laurent could feel Damen’s labored pulse beneath his fingertips. Then Damen murmured a soft farewell, and before Laurent could reply, he was gone.

Laurent’s tear fell on Damen’s cheek, trailed down the side of Damen’s face, almost as though it was Damen’s tear, if not for the fact that it was as black as ink.

❖


	3. Etched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 「當愛情遺落成遺跡，用象形刻劃成回憶，想念幾個世紀，才是刻骨銘心？」  
> “Love becomes nothing more than forgotten relics, and I carve memories into hieroglyphics. How long must I long for you to prove what has been etched onto my bones and branded over my heart?”

It was not as apocalyptic as he had imagined, and that made it worse.

In those first few decades, he often wished the world would end of its own accord, for as much as it hurt him to watch a world that plodded on without Damen, he could not bring himself to wreak destruction on something Damen had loved so fiercely, had devoted himself to so thoroughly.

Instead, he walked through nations that rose and fell, battlefields that roared with self-righteousness, with pride and anger and the meager blood of humanity. There were times, too, when he spilled it himself, dying the air with red mist and metallic odor. He needed no food, but he found himself craving the painful comfort of Damen’s favorite dishes—mostly, futilely, he craved the flavour of Damen himself. He trekked through places in their memories, and those in their dreams. He chased after Damen’s shadow.

Time felt extremely slow. Decades felt like centuries. Laurent ached: standing amidst fields of crumbling stone, the ruins of civilisations now nameless; breathing in the salty scent of a grey seacoast; lying on the hard, cold slope of a grass-covered hill at night, watching the stars and knowing their deaths; dreaming during the rare times he permitted himself to fall into the fractured depths of slumber; wanting, knowing his own touch would never be enough.

Laurent killed with bare hands; it was what his people did, what he was expected to do. It should be easier, without Damen there beside him to tell him it was wrong, reasoning with his lack of mortal ethics. But each time Laurent blinked to find himself in a sea of broken bodies and stilled hearts, he felt threaded with guilty emptiness, waiting for disapproval that would never come.

After the first century, Laurent took to wandering. He did not know how mortality worked, and though he found no credibility in humanity’s self-consoling theories of religion, it did not prevent him from waiting. He would wait, believing there was something to wait for: not a miracle, but something fundamental. A cycle, he thought, trying not to wonder if he was delusional. Damen would be back; and it did not matter how long it would take.

Laurent rubbed his hands together in the water, scrubbing from his fingers and knuckles blood that was not his. The river would be painfully cold to a human, but Laurent only watched neutrally as red dissolved into the water and became so diluted that it seemed as though it had never existed.

❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 「失去你的風景像座廢墟，像失落文明——能否一場奇蹟、一線生機，能不能有再一次相遇？」  
> “The same scenery but without you is like a field of ruins, like lost civilisations. Were there only a miracle, a lifeline—may we be granted another encounter?”
> 
> (Both the above quote and the quote in the chapter summary are from the song [想見你想見你想見你 "Miss You 3000"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4iRupuNet3Q) by 八三夭 831. It's a lovely song—I _love_ the lyrics.)


	4. Raw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That was... There’s something about you.”

Half a millennium later, Laurent found him a second time, at sea, on the deck of a trading vessel. Laurent recognised him immediately, a striking man in his mid-twenties, dressed as he was in the changing fashion of the merchant class at the time and so different from how he was in Laurent’s memories of him, in a simple Akielon chiton. When their arms brushed in seeming accident, Laurent felt the echoing surge of his blood in the other man’s veins, and when their eyes met, the man smiled, almost helplessly, through the surprise in his eyes. He asked Laurent, as if confused by his reaction to someone he perceived as a stranger:

“Have we met before? There’s something about you that seems—very familiar.”

Laurent’s heart knocked painfully against his ribs, as though the dagger wound from that night had never healed—and would never heal—completely. He cherished the pain, as he did every other reminder of Damianos.

He said, “Who knows? Perhaps we have, somewhere.”

And they chatted away the night there, by the ship’s rails, with the frothing of the water beneath them as background noise. Damen, Laurent learned, traded in technology: compasses and astrolabes, new tools, riding equipment, and even chemical innovations like fertilisers and medications. Now, Damen said, he was travelling to meet some associates and negotiate business deals, hopefully to set up more direct trade.

Laurent listened, and longed to reach out and touch him, to draw Damen into his arms and feel the warmth of Damen’s body once more, so different from the chill of his own skin. He wanted the reassurance of Damen’s heartbeat against his chest, the whispers of Damen’s breath over his lips, the tender promises murmured into the shell of his ear.

He could only watch: the light in Damen’s eyes as he spoke of his life, that brilliant spark of humanity in his casual smile and his rich, flowing voice. Laurent knew he was a hypocrite for loving something—someone—so ephemeral, but he would never regret it.

“Laurent?” said Damen, waving a hand over Laurent’s face. “Hey—you seem like you’re somewhere else. Have you forgotten about my existence?”

The question was asked in jest, but Laurent’s answer was serious. “Of course not.” _I would never forget you._

Damen blinked, taken aback by the intensity of Laurent’s response. But he recovered quickly, with an easy grin that made Laurent stare, and want.

“Yes. I’ve been told I’m pretty unforgettable,” said Damen. “Especially”—deviously, as he noticed Laurent’s gaze on his mouth—”in bed.”

Laurent’s eyes flicked hastily up to Damen’s, and he felt himself flush. “I’m sure,” he said, awkwardly.

Damen laughed, and the sound flowed through Laurent, drenching him in fluid warmth the way he imagined sunlight warmed humans. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Damen. Then, almost wistfully: “You remind me of someone.”

“Who?” Quietly.

Damen sighed into the clear night sky, a noise of troubled exasperation. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“All right,” said Laurent.

They were both silent for a moment, unspoken and unspeakable things between them, remembered and forgotten.

Then Damen said, “So where are you headed?”

“Anywhere,” said Laurent. His voice fell soft. “I had been looking for someone.”

“‘Had been’?” said Damen.

“Not anymore,” said Laurent. He didn't elaborate.

“... All right.” Then, sincerely: “This might be sudden, but since you no longer have a destination—would you like to come with me? I think we’d get along quite well.”

“I think so, too,” agreed Laurent.

“Is that a yes?” said Damen, grinning.

Laurent returned Damen’s smile with one of his own, slightly rigid from centuries of disuse. It had been a while. He said, “Yes.”

Damen stared at him for so long that Laurent grew self-conscious. He was in the middle of tucking away his unpracticed, probably unnatural smile when Damen's hand came up to cup his jaw, so lightly the contact was barely there, and suddenly their faces were only breaths apart, and Damen was looking at him with confusion and frustration and yearning and want.

Laurent started, stiffening at Damen’s proximity, and Damen’s hand dropped from his face. He averted his eyes from Laurent’s.

“Sorry,” he said, and Laurent felt the word on his skin. “I just—I was being presumptuous.”

But Damen did not pull back.

Laurent reached up and around and tugged Damen inwards, giving in to that selfish longing inside of him, seeking the familiar burn of Damen’s mouth smeared over his own, comforting and agonising all at once. He could feel the pull of the forbidden mixture of their blood underneath Damen’s skin, more than human. Tears stung in his eyes; he closed them carefully. He could not let the tears fall, for they were inhuman tears and they turned black in the air.

Damen was quick to respond, and Laurent had missed it, the intimacy of this sort of contact. It felt impossible that this was happening, that after so long, when he had just about given up any hope of it, he’d stumbled into Damen. He had resigned himself decades ago to wandering the human world in search of something he’d never find.

When the kiss broke, Damen was wearing an uncertain smile, his breathing visibly affected. He said, “That was... There’s something about you.” Puzzled.

Laurent stared back into his eyes, which were warm with humanity. There was, of course, no trace of recognition in their depths. Laurent had not lived half a millennium in Damen’s memories, the way Damen had in Laurent’s.

“I know,” he said. “There’s something about you, too.”

It was somehow both more and less than the truth.

“I’m not—I’ve never been with a man,” said Damen, hesitant, “like that.”

“Like what?”

“Romantically.”

“Then I suppose it’s fair, since you’re the only person I’ve ever been with,” said Laurent, without thinking.

Damen lifted a brow. “You’re already assuming I’ll agree to being with you.”

Laurent’s stomach knotted, but he kept his tone light. “Won’t you?”

Damen grinned, a dazzling relief. He leaned in and kissed Laurent; softly; lightly.

“It’s strange,” he said. “I feel like I’m incapable of saying no.”

“So, yes?”

And then Laurent was in Damen’s arms, a place as familiar as it should be foreign. It felt like returning home after five hundred years of being adrift; it was.

Damen’s voice by his ear: “Yes.”

❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a good wrapping point, though I have ideas for more "reunions."  
> In general I don't like romances where the characters are "destined to fall in love," but for some reason I dig it when it's something like this, where one of the characters "remember" and the other doesn't. (Maybe it's because I like it when one of the characters suffer?)  
>   
> Anyway, thanks to everyone who read this!


End file.
